Future Boy
by Pisces
Summary: A short piece semi-exploring the relationship between Doc and Marty.


Future Boy **Disclaimer:** Back to the Future, Doctor Emmett Brown, and Marty McFly don't belong to me. They belong to the Almighty and Great Bobs. Though, ya know... ::sly grin:: I kinda wish I owned Marty, if ya know what I mean. ::nudge, nudge; wink, wink:: Or at least Michael J. Fox. I have _such_ a major thing for that man now. Not that _you_ all care...

**Author's Notes:** Just whipped up a little piece semi-exploring the wonderful relationship Doc and Marty have. One of my favorite part of the movies (aside from every single time the DeLorean travels through time. ::shudders:: Just gives me chills thinking about it...) has always been this _great_ relationship those two have got going on. You can practically feel the fatherly love _radiating_ off of Doc at some points. It's just ridiculously good. I _love_ that.

The setting, as you should probably know, is in 1986. In my little head, it took Doc about ten years to build The Train, then came back to the future, bought a cozy little farm house in Hill Valley for himself and his family, and converted a barn into his workshop. He just recently in the summer of 1986 got everything settled down, all legal matters and whatnot, and the Browns moved in permanently.

And sorry there's not really any of the other Browns in here. This is focusing on _Doc_ and _Marty_. If you don't like it, well... Uh. sorry 'bout that? Not much you can do.

And I would like to thank Ms. Kristen Sheley, if she ever for some strange reason or another reads this. This was completely inspired by her great, great story "Detour to the Past". Her mentioning Mr. Van Halen's song "Dreams" got this whole thing rolling.

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**Future Boy**

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A Back to the Future fan fiction by Pisces

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"So baby, dry your eyes. Save all the tears you've cried. Ohh, that's what dreams are made of. Ohh, baby we belong in a world that must strong. Ohh, that's what dreams are made of..."

The melodious voice lapsed into silence, filling the large, spacious barn air with the suddenly too-loud noise of clacking plastic and metal. Doctor Emmett Brown glanced up, absentmindedly curious at the abrupt stillness, and gazed at the bobbing brown head of one Marty McFly, who was at that moment fully engrossed with the completely dull, time consuming task of sorting through parts, from across the top of a freshly bought DeLorean. Even though the Van Halen piece was only being piped through Marty's headphones, Doc knew exactly where in the tune he was, and could actually hear the guitar solo playing out within his head. The teen had been blaring it almost non-stop ever since it's release, the most recent song he had become utterly enamored with, and so the entire Brown family had gotten a unhealthy dose of contemporary music. After what seemed to be the right amount of allotted time, Marty's voice cut back in softly, and Doc contently smiled to himself before dipping his head back to the wiring he was doing.

"We'll go higher and higher, straight up we'll climb..."

Emmett could feel himself slipping back into that wonderful concentrated stupor he knew so well, barring all sights and sounds except for the work in front of him and the gentle hum of the achingly recognizable voice. He let it wash over him, enveloping him, the familiarity so exhilarating he involuntarily stilled his hands from a giddiness he hadn't experienced in over ten years, and missed desperately.

The music suddenly stopped, both lyrics and the faintly heard instrumentation, causing Doc to once again be snapped rudely out of his euphoric trance. Marty pushed the headphones to a resting place around his neck, pausing long enough to brush a lock of hair from his face with a sweep of slender fingers before meeting Doc's dark eyes and quirked eyebrow. The boy's otherwise bland expression was laced with a curious eagerness, a hidden emotion that at one point (a few months or a few years, depending on your point of view) Doctor Brown never even perceived, let alone knew existed. It was one of the many little things that the older man was finally becoming aware of. It seems one had to have their own son before they noticed the son that had already been with them.

"I'm done. Wanna come check?" The teen time traveler pushed back from the desk he had been occupying with a sharp kick from his well-worn Nike sneaker, standing up to stretch languidly. Doc's tall form, as he wandered over, only served to further extravagate Marty's already diminutive frame, who's wriggling hands barely reached past his friends frizzed hair. The comparison between the full length lab coat that comprised Emmett's attire and the cut off jean shorts and over-sized button up t-shirt of Marty's summer cloths was equally excessive, one that they, naturally, did not seem to notice. They both lend over the table, Marty pointing out his categorization method and Doc nodding in satisfaction. Feathery, snow-white hair mixed with silky brunette; murky, aged and intriguingly wise eyes met bright, vibrant and intriguingly innocent ones with matching amounts of compassion; large and small hands easily tangled in the confined space upon the desktop as certain things were indicated to the other. Their personal space was shared effortlessly, simply, and genuinely.

"Good job, Marty! That's exactly what I wanted." Doc's tone, whether he meant to or not, was praiseworthy, and Marty, whether he meant to or not, beamed at the approval. "With your help, I should be able to have the second time machine finished within two months."

Marty whistled softly, stealing a look at the already gutted DeLorean. "Jeez, Doc, you sure about that? We just started..."

Emmett waved a hand dismissively, briskly striding over to a side cabinet and breaking the closeness just as efficiently as it had been formed. "Of course, things will go much more smoothly the third time around. That is to be expected."

"Third time... Yeah, the train..." The musician was strangely dejected and Doc gave him a probing glance as he searched through the cabinet, questioning without spoken words. "When are you gonna give me that full tour you've been promising? It's been, like, _months_ since you've come home!"

_Home..._

Emmett halted, papers halfway out of the cupboard. "Home..." He rounded abruptly, rolls of paper clench in his hand, long coat flaring, and stalked back to where his old friend was giving him a pleasant, yet perplexed smile. "What did you say?"

Marty, who had every right to be freaked out, just cocked his head a bit to the side and answered the query, too use to Doc's eccentric ways to be worried. He wasn't worried. He trusted Doc. He always did. "I asked when you were going to show me the train. Chill, Doc."

The 80's slang. The air conditioning chugging away in the corner. The faint sound of traffic, so loud and comforting after such a long period in it's absence. Someone's car radio blaring deafeningly in the distance. The walkman clipped to Marty's jean pocket. And most importantly: Marty. The one whom he literally owed his life to, multiple times over, and he in return. 

Marty was staring at him, almost impatiently. "Are you going to show me or what?"

Doc shook his head, sharply. "Not right now, Marty. I'm sorry. I want you to see the plans I've made up for the modifications on the new DeLorean. But I promise to give you the full tour afterwards." A grin stretched across his long face, and he was very glad he was there to make that promise in the first place.

Marty grinned too, riding through Doc Brown's apparently spastic moods without a blink, trained from years of long practice. "I've got your word on it this time, Doc. No backing out!"

"Of course not, Marty. Of course not!"

And so Marty sat and listened to Doc lecture, even though two/thirds of the words that escaped past the taller man's mouth made no sense to him. Because he was his friend and he knew it made him happy.

And Doc lectured. Because the politely puzzled looked that always adorned his friend's face made him laugh. Because he missed doing it. Because he knew Marty missed doing it. Because it felt _right_. Yes, this was were he belonged. Not 1895, not 2015. _This_ was home. With Clara, and Jules, and Verne, and... 

Marty.

His future boy.


End file.
